


a little less fight and a little more spark

by kitmarlowed



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-14 01:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4545147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitmarlowed/pseuds/kitmarlowed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon knows he's best at this, playing people till they're his, and no amount of disdain or pity or whatever other horrifyingly misplaced emotion is going to make him embarrassed by it, make him think any less of his finest skill. It's what makes him such an asset, after all, and they can't deny it, just like he can't deny that he loves this part of the job, regardless of the blackmail. This is the bit he soars through, the part he'll find joy in right up to the end and it doesn't matter that Illya isn't a mark because right now Napoleon <i>needs</i> with all the voracity of the starved when confronted with a full meal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a little less fight and a little more spark

**Author's Note:**

> yes the title is elvis, no i am not proud
> 
> this is [gamble's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/endquestionmark) fault as usual and [emma jean's](http://laydownanywhere.tumblr.com) fault too for all the trailers and images and news
> 
> thanks also to [cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigostohelit) for OHH NOOOing

Napoleon loves London, always has done. It's more his city than New York, less honestly his, sure, but still it's the city that embraced him and nurtured him. This city is the finer things in life he's grown so used to. And it's odd, to say the least, being here with Illya -- even when he remembers the job, Illya in his element, rifles folded into cases as they scope out building after building just to be sure that they black bag the right office, get the intel they need to close this mark for good -- all of Illya's hard lines and lack of indulgence, his disdain for luxury, so antithetic to the gorgeous opulence of the city.

He's missed it, of course he has, and though he understands Sanders' (and, now, Waverly's) reluctance to put him in this particular field with all the potential threats to his cover, having to run the behind the scenes for Illya still feels like he's being punished for something. He's bored and there's no decent reason for anyone to be bored in London. He could be out there right now, he thinks, the itch beneath his skin and the ache in his head that's just waiting to not be him, to be anybody else but himself, and he'd be right for it. Better than Illya at playing pretend, better at the fast smooth talking that gets them into the places they need to be, better at the charm and the wit and it's been months since he's been touched by anyone other than himself and he's _hungry_.

Napoleon blinks back into now, ignores the pickup in his heartbeat. "I just think it's a bad play, is all," he says, mostly to himself and the air for all Illya's listening to him and that, that's the worst thing about nights like these mid mission: no one pays Napoleon the slightest bit of attention. It's jarring and uncomfortable and he doesn't know how to be when he's not putting on a show. He needs a cigarette, he supposes, immediately but thinks what he really needs is something else.

"Your jealousy will not bring us success," Illya tells him, not even looking up from the map he has laid out on the coffee table in front of him. It's a single mindedness Napoleon can respect, grudgingly at best, but not enough to make time for it himself. He's too restless for the long winded planning of it all, prefers leeway to make it up as he goes, to keep working at a mark, a safe, until it breaks for him and its secrets spill for him. Much more satisfying than just sticking to a plan. This time, for example, Illya and Waverly have worked everything out in fine detail, all Napoleon got was to pick the hotel. It's hardly his fault he took a mile, and the room is all decadence and rich threads and Napoleon manages not to laugh at Illya's starkness against it, grey and black on beautiful deep wine red -- though really, even Napoleon can admit there is a sort of beauty to Illya, very much a creature forged by others, a perfect specimen, almost, all the long, lean lines of him and-- he laughs at the comment instead.

"I'm not jealous, peril," he says and it's true in some ways and a terrible lie in most others, but admitting that won't get him anywhere. "That would be useless and utterly unprofessional. What I _am_ is losing faith in our directive." He waits, and yes, there it is, the small shift in Illya's shoulders before he lifts his head to glare at Napoleon.

"Orders," Illya says, voice rough and low, a warning. "Just because you are so reluctant to follow them does not mean--"

Napoleon steps through onto the balcony, lets the stillness of the air so high up settle against his skin. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, lights his cigarette, and takes a long, deep and satisfying (almost, _almost_ satisfying) drag of it. He's not the type to cling to vices like lifelines, has played roles that do with tragic ends, but there really is something to be said for the humble cigarette, it's calming, smoke wrapping warm and tight around his lungs. London glitters before him, unfurling like a map of things he's done and has always wanted to do, teasing him with memories of the good times before they'd caught up with him. 

"You are distracted," Illya says with little intonation, walking out and leaning back against the balcony, watching Napoleon smoke. 

"You've got me all wrong tonight," Napoleon tells him and it's a weaker lie than the first, puts him out on shaky footing but he's still so _bored_ with it. He taps the ash out over the edge, and Illya tracks the movement, eyes flicking back and forth between the cigarette and Napoleon's face. Napoleon smiles, a smirk, really, and brings his other hand up to loosen his tie, the move slow and deliberate and eye catching and he must have used it a million times. It doesn't fail, and Illya stares at Napoleon's throat just like he's supposed to. 

Napoleon knows he's best at this, playing people till they're his, and no amount of disdain or pity or whatever other horrifyingly misplaced emotion is going to make him embarrassed by it, make him think any less of his finest skill. It's what makes him such an asset, after all, and they can't deny it, just like he can't deny that he loves this part of the job, regardless of the blackmail. This is the bit he soars through, the part he'll find joy in right up to the end and it doesn't matter that Illya isn't a mark because right now Napoleon _needs_ with all the voracity of the starved when confronted with a full meal. 

Illya stands up straight and takes the cigarette from Napoleon's right hand, crushing it on the railing and dropping it over the edge. Napoleon watches it go and then Illya's hand is on his chest, almost brushing his left still loose around his tie. 

"Careful, peril," Napoleon says, going still under the touch. "We're still _supposed_ to be allies, remember."

"I'm not going to harm you," Illya says -- and of course, that's a given, Illya only hurts him when it's obvious he wants it, which he doesn't right now -- and then he's got one hand around the wrist of Napoleon's right hand, pinning him to the railing, and the other slapping Napoleon's left out of the way so that he can curl his own fingers into Napoleon's tie and tug. 

Napoleon smiles, baring teeth and it's real for all he's playing now and he wraps his fingers around Illya's wrist, feeling the steady beat of Illya's pulse beneath thin skin, and waits for him to pull again, to bring Napoleon toward him, no room for argument. Illya lets go of the hand at the railing, Napoleon missing it instantly, taps the back of Napoleon's hand once before bringing his own to rest on Napoleon's shoulder, using the tie to manoeuvre Napoleon against the wall. The bricks are sharp through the thin fabric of his shirt but it's just more sensation and he's still so hungry for it, for everything.

This is Illya's Napoleon, and it's closer to what he really likes than he should let on: easy sensation, easy response. Easy to lean up and press his mouth against Illya's, to say "Please," and _mean_ it because there's just this and the heat of Illya's palm on his chest and the bricks at his back and it's not enough. Illya bites at Napoleon's lower lip, pulling him back in with a slight pull on his tie. 

"If we do this now," Illya says, voice harsh and low and it's practically electric to Napoleon, makes him arch off the wall, chasing friction. "Will you focus on the mission?" He punctuates this by taking Napoleon's hand off of his wrist and slamming it down above his head. Napoleon gasps at that, and Illya takes the opportunity to kiss him properly, soundly, taking his time and Napoleon takes a minute before he's able to give as good as he gets, free hand on Illya's side, his arm, his chest again until Illya pulls back and looks at him, says, "only way to shut you up," and Napoleon laughs, simple and pleased, letting the sensations sink in until he's ready to push for more.

"I promise," he says, and Illya has abandoned his tie in favour of sinking his fingers into Napoleon's hair and pulling every so often, like does now and Napoleon pulls him forward by the waist, closing the gap that was negligible to begin with, parting his legs to let Illya stand between them, effectively trapping himself. "I will be the consummate professional."

Illya bites him again, but presses forward, letting go of Napoleon's wrist to get between them, taking the tie off and leaning down to bite his neck, sucking a blood bruise that will fade in time for the next mission, for good measure. And then he steps back, and Napoleon cants his head to the side, stretching the skin around the mark on his throat, and he knows exactly what he looks like, legs slightly parted and collar wide open. This is where he's comfortable -- this and mid theft, when the adrenaline's still high and he's flying, uncatchable and _/better_ and he's incandescent with it -- out of his skin, someone else entirely and almost without conscious thought. Illya gestures for him to move forward, away from the wall and Napoleon watches out of the corner of his eye as Illya moves behind him. 

“Peril, come on,” Napoleon chokes out, Illya’s hands trailing up his arms to his neck, guiding him to turn, and when he does Illya takes his wrists, binds them, a quick and efficient knot that’ll end up pulling, ruining the line of the tie but Napoleon doesn’t care because the sensation is all promise and potential and power for Illya regardless of the fact Napoleon is more than capable of getting out of it if necessary. And Illya is still touching him, everywhere, and it feels like vindication of a sort, Illya tugging him closer so their positions are reversed: Illya against the wall with Napoleon pressed against him, bound hands awkward against the obvious in both their trousers and when Illya grinds forward Napoleon hisses, hard and hot and shaking with it. Illya reaches both hands up, curls one in Napoleon’s hair and traces his jaw with the other. Napoleon lets him, leans his head back to feel the pull as Illya tightens his grip, parts his lips when Illya brushes over them, nicotine on his fingers from the crushed cigarette.

“Down,” Illya says, and Napoleon doesn’t think before he goes, sinking to his knees and mouthing at the outline of Illya’s cock through his slacks. Illya snarls, and Napoleon watches him, watches the way he leans his head back against the bricks, breathing just a little harsher than normal -- Napoleon thinks about taking him to pieces bit by bit with his mouth, how he’ll have to compensate for the loss of using his hands, thinks of how Illya will stay composed until the very last before he loses it completely, two or three seconds of abandon maybe and then back to the collectedness Napoleon admires in some moments and hates in others. He wants it all, he’s thrilled.

Illya looks at him, then, eyes bright and gaze heavy and there it is: a second sign he’s being well received, that Illya wants him. “What are you waiting for?” he asks and Napoleon laughs, bringing his hands up to unzip Illya’s slacks and it’s awkward and the tie is just tight enough to pinch as he moves but then he has his hands around Illya’s cock, the heat and weight of it, and Illya bites out a groan that turns into a sharp inhalation when Napoleon leans forward and licks him, a long strip along the length. 

Napoleon is good at this, good at sex in general, and he’s more than a little smug as he smiles up at Illya, just waiting for the hand in his hair to push him forward again. Illya’s leaning heavy against the wall, hips canted forward, back arching and he’s so mesmerizing in his intensity even here, on his way to debauched. Napoleon lets the head of Illya’s cock slide into his mouth, curls his tongue around it until Illya has both hands in his hair pulling almost painfully but mostly just spurring him on. He takes him deeper, inch by inch, slow just like he would be if Illya were a mark in a honeytrap; male or female the rules are the same, slow and tantalising, just enough to make them shake apart before you do. But Illya isn’t a mark, isn’t going to be played as easily and he drops a hand to the juncture of Napoleon’s neck and presses lightly on the bite mark he’d left before, making Napoleon jerk forward into the pressure -- another spot of blinding sensation -- taking him into his mouth whole. 

Illya swears and the pressure on his neck increases, pressing the bruise until Napoleon hums around his dick and Illya moves his hand away lightning fast to brace himself, to grip the bricks behind him. “Fuck,” he says, and Napoleon hums again, pulling away just to swallow down again, throat opening easy. “Fuck, Solo.” And Napoleon thinks maybe after the mission, maybe when they’re both buzzing with adrenaline but for now he contents himself with this, Illya heavy and hard and big in his mouth and it’s unfair how much this is affecting him, should be just Illya shaking apart not both of them desperate. He pulls back to breathe, and Illya just looks at him, dark and dangerous -- and Napoleon’s so hard, pushes the heels of his hands against himself, arms straining with the wrongness of the angle but it’s worth it just for the pressure -- uses the hand in his hair to guide Napoleon’s mouth back to where he wants it, hips jerking and Napoleon flattens his tongue against the underside of his cock but pushing through and getting his cock as far as down Napoleon’s throat as he can over and over again until Napoleon makes a noise, like a sob and Illya’s coming, hard. Napoleon swallows and then sits back, too focused on Illya, moving in little staccato bursts, white knuckled grip on the brick even as his hand slides free of Napoleon’s hair. 

The sudden lack of contact is jarring, and Napoleon thinks about trying to stand on his own, to go and take care of himself and then honor his promise to focus on the mission, but then Illya glances at him and there’s a flush high on his cheeks and it’s so funny that Napoleon laughs, loud in the quiet of the London night. Illya scowls down at him, or tries to, the corners of his mouth turned up despite himself, and tucks himself away, before reaching down to pull Napoleon up against him again.

“Not bad,” he says, voice hoarse and Napoleon finds there’s still want there, like the hunger he himself has and it’s electric and terrifying all at once and Illya isn’t cruel enough to tease him, not when he’s still gasping to get his breath back. Illya goes for the tie, says, “You want more, yes?”

“Let’s take this inside,” Napoleon replies, but Illya doesn’t let go of his wrists. 

“You promised,” he says. “Focus.”

“You’ve made that rather difficult at present,” Napoleon says, gesturing to himself, pushing his sleeves back up from where they’d slipped with his hands tied.

Illya shrugs. “You wanted it that way, it was obvious in your eyes.”

Napoleon supposes it was, and again he won’t admit that, walks back into the hotel room, settling on the couch and palming himself. The suit is a write off for the dust and ash on the knees and he sees Illya look at them before looking at him and what he’s doing, and from inside he looks predatory -- only ever a good thing at times like these -- out there in the dark.

“Come and help me focus, then,” Napoleon says and Illya rolls his eyes.

They lock the door and close the curtains, London’s had enough of a show for one night, and Napoleon has never loved it more.


End file.
